The First Step

 I have a big story to tell and no a lot of time.  I have to take my mother to a doctor's appointment this morning, so this is most likely going to be a tale poorly told.  Too bad, really.  I'd like to think had I the time, I could really make it sing.  

Let's just go with chronology.  It is the simplest, quickest way to a narrative, or perhaps, if you are a postmodernist, narrative death.  

Q sent me a quotation from Foucault about the monster in us.  I wrote back that I was a mere beast and not a monster.  Yes, he said, "the beast with one back."  Funny enough.  Then, "the beast with one hand."  So I sent him an image of Onan. 

He quickly told me that he was a devout Onanist.  

I'll say this--it is an easy worship.  Maybe one day we'll talk about our mastubatory practices here.  

Probably not.  

Enough of that, though.  I had to make my mother breakfast.  Eggs and protein toaster waffles. She loves those things.  

Now came the first, most difficult step, as I reported yesterday that I would try to take.  I got a pair of big clippers and went into my mother's backyard to trim her wildly out of control crepe myrtles.  It was still early, but man, the heat was brutal.  Or maybe it was the humidity.  But probably it was the drinking.  I had sweat through my clothes in five minutes.  In ten, I was panting.  In fifteen, the middle of my back was stinging from working the giant sheers against the thick, wild branches.  In twenty, my lower back was killing me from bending over to pull the twelve and fifteen foot stalks into the yard.  I worked for an hour.  So it seemed.  The yard was full of big stalks that needed to be cut into pieces and put into bags for yard trash day.  Sweat was dripping off my nose.  I decided I'd done enough for the day, more than I had planned on.  Those branches weren't going anywhere.  

I got my mother to come outside and take a look.  She would see things and I would do a bit more pruning.  I told her I would finish it up later, though.  It was getting late and hot, and I wanted to go make some pictures.  

"We have that big Porterhouse steak for dinner tonight."

"What?"

"See you later."

The a.c. blew cold against my damp body and gave me chills.  But I was drying.  I thought about going home first to change, then I decided against that.  I was going to sweat like a. . . a. . . heathen. . . walking in the heat, so I pointed my little chariot in the direction of a distant part of town.  Traffic had already picked up and it was slow and frustrating going.  I was getting antsy.  I wanted to walk on empty streets.  

I pulled the car to the side of the road and parked.  I had eight shots of slide film in my Leica R5 to shoot up.  I grabbed a roll of Porta 400 and stuck it in the camera bag.  I didn't think I would take many photographs really.  I was thinking more of just putting in some miles. 

But it was one of those days when you see things.  I was seeing things and shot off those last eight shots quickly.  Good.  I wanted to get them to the lab.  

I came upon a fellow sitting in front of a barber shop.  It was a good barber shop.  You'll see, eventually.  He was a young Black male with tats on his neck and arms and cropped hair that was dyed bright red.  I nodded.  

"Do you work here?"

He gave a Mona Lisa grin and nodded.  

The shop was empty but well lighted.  

"Do you mind if I make a photo through the window?"

"Go ahead.  You can go inside if you like."

"Cool." 

So I did. I don't know if I made any good pictures, but the place had about eight chairs and was old time fancy.  When I came back out, the fellow asked, "What are you shooting?"

"You mean film?"

"No, what are you taking pictures of?"

"Oh, abstractions, reflections. . . colors."

Yea, I felt dumb.  

"Is this your place?"

"No.  The owner isn't here today."

"Do you mind if I take a photo of you?"

"Go ahead."

"I'll bring the pictures back when I get the film developed.  When are you here?"

"Everyday but Tuesday."

"Alright, then.  I'll see you again."

Well, I thought, that was fun.  And I walked on.  And on.  And too soon, I'd finished the second roll of film.  But it was fine, for once again, my clothes were soaked.  I was excited to take the film to the lab, but I drove a long way around through parts of town I would have stopped to make photos if I had brought more film.  I've been a dumbass about not bringing enough film.  I had black and white film in my Leica M, but I would save that. There was another pop-up market in the parking lot behind the film lab, so maybe I would use it there.  

I had to park far away from the lab.  Cars lined every street.  I don't get it, these little "vintage" hipster markets where they sell old clothing, but I needn't.  I grabbed the two rolls of film to develop and my Leica and headed for the store, and as soon as I turned the corner onto the main street. . . wham!  I love these kids.  Costumes.  They spend a whole lotta time making up their looks.  I'm a fan, and I want to make photos of them all.  I stole some photos from the hip, but I needed color film, really, to capture the colors that they wear, the clothes, the makeup, the hair.  For the millionth time, I thought I should rent a space and set up a photo booth.  

"Photos.  One dollar."

When I got to the door of the film lab, a young couple was walking out.  Everybody is young, I think, who shoots film.  They were a pretty boy and girl.  

"Wow.  Nice camera," the boy said. 

"Thanks."

Inside it was cool and dark.  

"Dropping off?"

"Yea." 

I filled out the order forms.  Oh, shit.  I left my wallet in the car.  Long walk.  I took more photos.  

When I got back to the lab, the fellow who worked there said, "Nice camera."  Those Leica Ms are just lovely works of art.  They are truly beautiful.  I remember desiring them so badly but not being able to justify the cost.  At some point, however. . . the heart wants what the heart wants.  

When I went back on the street, I wandered the market.  It was bigger than I thought going on for blocks.  But I felt obvious walking around with the camera.  The market had just opened and wasn't yet crowded.  I took a few pictures and decided to bail.  There was a good brewery just down the street that had fabulous beers and terrific boiled peanuts--in many flavors.  

I sat outside.  It was hot.  The beer was ice cold.  The waitress was cute with crazy dyed hair, short shorts, tats, a great face, nice figure.  She smiled the smile of a woman working.  I wanted to take a thousand photos of her.  One day I would ask her.  

This was Crazy Larry's hangout, the retired NASA engineer.  He comes here with his scratch off lotto tickets most days.  Once, he told me, he'd gotten a ten thousand dollar scratch off ticket and had given it to the waitress.  

"I'd won one before, and it was too much of a hassle.  You have to go to the lottery office and fill out all these forms. . . .  They let me drink here for free now."

Indeed, I once asked a server if that was true.  Sure as shittin'.  

I sat in the heat with wet, sticky hands busting open the peanuts and sucking out the meat like a madman.  I looked around.  These were not the cute hipster kids.  These people were older, not old, but young parents. The women now pushed strollers or carried babies on their hips or both.  Once cute, I'm sure, they now looked broken down, their faces carrying a heavy disappointment.  The men looked something else, more irritated or perhaps just bored.  Once flat stomachs now protruded.  The women did not make costumes.  They wore. . . what everyone else wore, or whatever, and I wondered why.  I'm sure they were like the kids in the market once.  What made them do it?  What made them succumb?  I have never figured it out.  They must have had trashy daydreams at some point.  They gave them up for. . . the dull thud, thud, thud of this.  

I'm sure I looked like quasimodo to them sucking and slurping, fingers wet and shiny, my shirt clinging to my belly with sweat.  

"Among the throng, but not of the throng."

Yea, right.  But I felt glances from some of the mothers. Probably not, but I felt certain of it.  

"You're an idiot. Did you no that?"

They play awful rock music here, but I heard something I liked. 

"Siri, what is this song?"

Holy moly, this was good.  Not great musical talent but a fun sound. It reminded me much of my old band, New Suburbans.  Just raw garage.  This was turning out to be an outstanding day. 

When I had finished sucking and sipping, I took my stuff to the trash can.  I stepped inside and asked if they sold any of their beers to go.  Indeed, they had a cooler full of canned beer.  Hell yea, I grabbed a pack of four tall boys of what I had been drinking, "Punks in the House."  

On the way out, I saw Crazy Larry working the lotto.  He didn't want to talk.  Maybe he didn't recognize me with short hair. 

Back in the car, I decided to stop at The Cafe Strange for a mimosa, if my friend was working.  If not, I wouldn't be able to.  Everyone else tells me no.  But she usually works there on Sundays, so I'd take a shot.  

And this is where the narrative gets very, very, interesting.  But guess what?  I'm out of time.  I knew I couldn't do all this before we had to leave.  And so. . . for now, this is on the QT.  Just between us.

I don't even have time to go back to correct any errors here.  I have to post it just as is, straight from my fingers to your ears.